Save The Children's an awesome, nonreligious, independent charity doing great work worldwide, providing everything from shelter to education to medical care for kids who aren't within reach of it, for whatever reason. By no means do you have to buy the book to give a buck, but if you, it'll be well worth it.

Spider Man 2 thespian and recent Columbia MFA graduate James Franco signed it sometime before telling our photographer, Mo Pitz, to fuckoff. Mo will forgive him one day, but we're still thankful for the sign. Same with 2009's National Book Award fiction prize winner, Let The Great World Spin author Colum McCann. We also got I Was Told There Would Be Cake author Sloane Crosley, College Humor founder Ricky Van Veen, media reporter Jeff Bercovici (signing as Dave Eggers), the New York Times' Allen Salkin, cartoonists, other National Book Award nominees, and a bunch of other people who—like you—care about books.

Signature Gawker editors past and present grace the thing, too: Editor-in-Chief Gabriel Snyder, New York Magazine's Jessica Coen, The Awl's Alex Balk, founding editor Elizabeth Spiers, Page Six's Neel Shah, and and our very own weekend cleanup hitter, Foster Kamer, who braved the National Book Awards to do this, and also ambushed a Mediaite's live broadcast to plug it (fast-forward to 48:30 for the surprise). Besides which, if The Dark Lord Balthazar himself can pitch in...

....so can you. It's for a great cause, it's a literary treasure, and is the best copy of a Historically Important Book, Going Rogue, in existence. Hands down. Don't miss out: get your last bids in here.

[BID ON THE BOOK HERE. SERIOUSLY. IT'S FOR CHARITY.]

Realize: this is the best copy of this book in existence. Period. Bar none. And at a ceremony when the books and authors being honored have the sales of their books disproportionately inverted by their quality, it only seemed appropriate to get everybody in on The Big Joke of the evening: that more people would read Sarah Palin's Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Bullshit than any of the nominees' and winners' books, combined.

We offered the book up to some of our favorite literature and media luminaries that were in the house that evening. Dave Eggers—that asshole!—was very nice about refusing to sign our book, probably because it wasn't for his 826 charity. But he was kind. How's that for an endorsement?

Not good enough? What about super awesome sleepy Columbia MFA graduate and Freaks and Geeks actor James Franco signing our book?

Yes, this man signed our book. Okay, Jim. Maybe you made our photographer cry. But you did this one for the children. You're okay, today. Also, the nerds at Slate think you're The Sexiest Man With A Pulse, for what it's worth (read: the most ostentatious pillow talk ever). Congrats. But what if an awesome hunky dreamy movie star with an MFA from Columbia isn't enough reason to spend lots of money on a book people drew on?

Maybe 2009 National Book Award winner Colum McCann signing this bad boy is! YES THAT IS COLUM MCCANN SIGNING THE PALIN BOOK. This took a lot—a lot—of convincing. Charity, huh? But it's Sarah Palin's book! Sarah Palin! I can't put my name on anything of hers! Are you sure this is for charity? What charity?!

Funny you should ask, Mr. McCann. I've picked a charity so great, you can't even say their name out loud without feeling awful for never having done something for them until now: Save The Children. Yeah, you're gonna stiff these guys?

They've done great work bringing literacy programs to kids in need across the country, among other great things they've done for kids that otherwise don't get things done for them that should be. If I were running these programs, I would have them all reading Gawker Weekends and Calvin and Hobbes, because that's what I grew up on, but I'm not, and these people are, and we're all better off. You don't have to buy the book to give a buck. Oh, and if you complain about the charity I picked, I'll come to your house and personally beat you with an unsigned copy of Ms. Palin's 2010 NBA Fiction Winner. But yes, people actually signed this thing.

You want proof?

2009 NBA Fiction Prize winner Collum McCann (fourth page, center) really, actually did take this much convincing. He wrote: "'For we must love this poor earth, for we have not seen another...' Go Obama!" Awesome.

Ricky Van Veen and Neel Shah marvel at how incredibly awesome this book is, while Jessica Coen is laughing to herself imagining Sarah Palin read her fabulous, fierce nugget of wisdom.

Here's the guy who I thought was Toph Eggers, right. I got everyone's name wrong that night. At one point I think I remember identifying Keith Waldrop as Obi-Wan Kenobi.

Jeff Bercovici signed the book as Dave Eggers, since Dave Eggers doesn't care about Saving The Children so much as making them read George Saunders or whatever.

Here're the first two pages:

And here're the second two:

And here's the full list of who we know we got:

2009 NBA Fiction Winner, Let The Great World Spin author Colum McCann.

Spider Man 2 actor and recent Columbia MFA graduate James Franco wrote (third page, top-right): "FUCK YEAH!" with a strange vampire-smiley face.

2008 NBA Fiction Finalist Salvatore Scibona (second page, middle-right) gave her "hugs."

2008 NBA Fiction Finalist Rachel Kushner (second page, bottom-left) offers her insight on context clues regarding snowmobiles.

I Was Told There Would Be Cake author by night and Random House book publicist by day Sloane Crosley offered her encouragement "storming the castle." True story: Sloane had no idea what she was signing.

The Seymore Hersh of the Sunday Styles, New York Times writer Allen Salkin took up the entire bottom-third of the fourth page ensuring that I wasn't conning him. He also drew a fairly accurate drawing of himself.

Dave Eggers! As performed/signed by former Portfolio and current Daily Finance media columnist Jeff Bercovici (fourth page, top-right).

Columnist Katie Bakes tried to start a #hashtag, while the New York Observer's publishing beat gangsta Leon Neyfakh wrote...something.

Vice and New York Press writer Jamie Peck (second-page, bottom-right, I think) talked to her about wolves. Someone who isn't Vice writer Jamie Peck, apparently, talked to her about wolves. Claim your identity here!

College Humor founder Ricky Van Veen gave Sarah a big CHILL, BABY, CHILL while Former Radar, Gawker, and Page Six writer Neel Shah got tactful.

The Awl writer Alex Balk.

Flavorwire's Kelsey Keith had more sage advice for Palin's future career aspirations.

Cartoonist Laurie Sandell drew a woman holding a smoking gun on the third page. Get it?

Gawker Past and Present: Media Overlord Nick Denton and current Gawker Editor-in-Chief Gabriel Snyder both thanked her for pageviews—heh—while founding Gawker editor Elizabeth Spiers wished her luck, and Gawker J²-era/New York Magazine editor Jessica Coen gave her hair tips.

Oh, and me, lending to this the extent of my own profound, political insight.

We also got Gawker's Altarcations writer Phyllis Nefler. and some guy who looks like Dave Eggers brother, who turned out not to be Dave Eggers' brother after I thought he was Dave Eggers' brother. His name is Alec Friedman.

[Alas, because we were drunk, there may be signatures in here we missed. Seriously! If you see your John Hancock—heh: cock—please email me with it. It's for charity. You don't want children growing up to one day actually think that was funny, do you? Right. Neither do I.]

The book's sanctity has been preserved by only having been signed on the night of the 2009 National Book Awards, by attendees of the ceremony. That said, if you win it and want to have anybody else in the Gawker Media offices sign it, sure, fuckit, I'll get them to sign. Hell, we know people who are experts on books that are imaginary that are supposed to be real, and I bet we could get them to sign if that's what you wanted. Or I could eat the book, or I could drop-kick it, or I could detonate it with whatever fireworks you send us, or I could read it, but who's that awful? Not you, potential charity-giver. Anyway. You could do any of those things, or none of them, and just keep it as one of the most awesome literary collectibles ever. You know? You know.

Because one day, you can show this to your children's children, and tell them: I bought this so you could see how happy the people were before it was like this. Now that James Franco is the new Daniel Mendelsohn, and every book published is full of shit, and they all come from blogs, and they're the only things that sell, and they are read on calculators, there was this. There was this night. There were these drunk people signing Frau Palin's book.

And then you can blame it on this guy:

But seriously, it's for charity. Buy the goddamn book. Now. Please. Our auction is here.

[Photographs via Gawker Party Crash photog Mo Pitz.]

Neel Shah, Page Six gossip and former Gawker and Radar-ite, was glad his phone didn't end up with the likes of his present or past employers. (He should be.)

Tech pundit and Berkeleyite Andrew Keen articulated an ideology of what might be called, if you're avoiding Rush Limbuagh-isms, "femifascism."

British Telecom's Kevin Marks hopes that's an iPhone you're discreetly working in your pocket.

Singer Weird Al Yankovic does this every time he flies.

Wired's Dylan Tweney is bookmarking your comments for future reference, haters.

Did you witness the media elite tweet something indiscreet? Please email us your favorite tweets - or send us more Twitter usernames.

Writer and radio host Kurt Andersen has, at long last, discovered The Wire, approximately 40 years after everyone else. Luckily his job does not involve being abreast of media or culture, or this would be embarrassing.

Michael Turk, "eCampaign Director" for Bush-Cheney 04, made an abortion joke. Quick, someone make an equally funny comeback involving Congressional pages!

Oprah taught Page Six's Neel Shah the definition of real media power: when you can get the Black Eyed Peas to cut a custom version of their song for your phone-hold music.

In addition to having to cope with looming holiday layoffs, Electronic Arts staffers have been asked to please keep Veronica Belmont physically awake at all times.

You heard Engadget's Joshua Topolsky right, ladies: His cable BRINGS IT. Get freaky with the coaxial!

Did you witness the media elite tweet something indiscreet? Please email us your favorite tweets - or send us more Twitter usernames.

Anyone who might conceivably write "I will break your back over my knee in the press... you little tiny fairy... I break aging trust fund pussies like you as a matter of course" in an email need not apply.

For historical reasons, we simply cannot consider any candidates in a fedora at this time. Likewise, if you think it is in any way appropriate for someone to "sponsor" a cocktail party for a gossip writer, please stop reading right now.

If you have the right name, we might be able to write your contributions for you, provided you promise to never subsequently turn around and act outraged that we write your contributions for you.

Job might include occasional grooming of supervisor's beard. Please send resumé by FAX; a functional knowledge of the internet is discouraged.

• Anna Wintour's main event-planning-lady - who she's had around for 11 years - is leaving to go spend time with her family. Her resignation probably came with an ambivalent scoff regarding weakness and moral fortitude, and as soon as she closed the door to Wintour's office, Wintour collapsed in heaving sobs. Probably. Maybe. Okay, that shit absolutely did not happen. [P6]
  
  
• Hollywood's Rapid-Fire-Speech Power Couple, West Wing actor Bradley Whitford and wife Jane Kaczmarek (Malcolm In The Middle) are getting a divorce; they have three children. Want to tear up? Here's Whitford's famously charming and gracious Emmy acceptance speech in which he lovingly thanks Kaczmarek for her support of his career. It was going to be 17 years in August, and this is the second celebrity divorce announcement of the week (the first was Billy and Katie Lee Joel). [People]
  
  
• Last month's speculation Gisele Bundchen was preggers with Tom Brady's baby is now confirmed. No word on whether the child - like Brady's other baby - has a penis, or if it's right-handed. New England waits with baited breath. Meanwhile, somewhere late last night, the Manning family wardanced around a black cauldron and threw live lobsters into lime and burning sulfur. [NYDN]
  
  
• Gah! The Governator was on a flight when the cockpit filled with smoke and had to make an emergency landing. Everyone's fine and nobody had to "GET OUT OF THE CHOPPAH" because they were in an airplane, obvi. [TMZ]
  
  
• T.R. Knight made some stuff up about how sad he is to be leaving Grey's Anatomy, probably just to keep his agents from performing self-immolation in a Century City back alley. [People]
  
  
• Radio midget Ryan Seacrest was chillin' with Lindsey Lohan Thursday night until the late hours. Hey, whatever, I just work here. [E!]
  
  
• Woody Allen wants to put the moves on Carla Bruni. On behalf of all nerdy, sexless Semites everywhere, I say: Go with God. [NYDN]
  
  
• American producers of Britian's Got Talent are looking for their own Susan Boyle. Imagine that conversation: "Yeah, of course she can sing like Sarah Brightman, but unless she's seven and has a tumor protruding five inches out of her forehead, we're gonna have to pass. Sorry." [NYDN]
  
  
• Men's Health stud-in-chief Dave Zinczenko doesn't give a shit about swine flu. He had some party where they ate a bunch of pig. Meanwhile, the only men buying Men's Health still remain the ones who will never have AWESOME ABS IN NINE SECONDS. [P6]
  
  
• Beyonce totally stood up Manhattan nightclub Mansion - sorry, M2 - on a date. But the best part of the item is that M2's owner - Joey Morrisey - gets referred to by his last name throughout the piece. So it reads like the former lead singer of The Smiths and the former Destiny's Child frontwoman are about to throw down. Which would be awesome. [P6]
  
  
• Gossip Girl mom Kelly Rutherford is worried her ex-husband might run for the border with her kids. Josh Schwartz is somewhere taking script notes. [TMZ]
  
  
• Page Six watched Leighton Meester's sex tape - or, okay, "several different sources" coughNeel Shahcough - and notes that her feet are definitely the stars of the show. This was reported yesterday, but Gawker can't actually verify this until Managing Editor Gabriel Snyder approves an expense on the company card, so until then, turn to Page Six for all your hard-hitting Leighton Meester sex tape play-by-play action, which they will probably have the exclusive on before us. [P6]
  
  
• Heh. The Busey continues to spit game at whatever immortal age he's at. TMZ caught him at the beach talking to a gaggle of girls, though in all likelihood, he was probably lecturing them on the chi of the sand vulture's post hunter-gathering expedition sex rituals. [TMZ]
  
  
• Hugh Laurie could care less what happens to House. "I don't care what happens I only care how it happens. House could become a nun or an arms dealer or a transvestite," the Emmy-winning actor noted. Okay, House becoming a nun or a transvetite? Seriously great ideas, though. Either would get me watching the show again. [Showbiz Spy]

• Yesterday, we reported: "Susan Boyle's BACKINYOFACE, mothafuckas!" And now we're sad to report: Susan Boyle's "exhausted" again. She pulled out of a Manchester tour date because she wasn't feelin' it. This can't be good. I mean, let's just say what needs to be said here: the woman always kind of felt a little, well, off. It was her quirk and naivety of fame that did the whole "capture our hearts" thing, so, you know, you'd think: these things would be something to watch out for, indicators of some lack of preparedness for the fame she achieved two seconds after she stepped off that stage the first time. And now, here we are: a tired woman, being driven crazy by too much at once. Sigh. [TMZ]
  
  
• Still can't get over the Dustin Lance Black photos, if only because I'm trying to remember which other non-acting Oscar winners have had photos of them leaked. Really, this entire thing is just a solid Jeopardy answer in the making. Anyway: Black released a statement in response to the photos leaking, in which he apologizes for not practicing safe sex. "More important than the embarrassment of this incident is the misleading message these images send. I apologize and cannot emphasize enough the importance of responsible sexual practices." [E!]
  
  
• WTF. Cindy Adams wrote two pages for the Post this morning on how to stash cash away. Sample line: "You can glue single bills flat inside luggage lining — providing your suitcase is classy enough for a lining and you don't mind the inconvenience of then ripping that bag to shreds to get the paste off the money." Uh, thank you, Crazy Aunt Cindy? Next week, Neel Shah teaches you how to beat a dude with a lead pipe. [Page Six]
  
  
• Har! Salman Rushdie tore the shit up 'out the dance floor at a party the other night. Noteth Page Six, poetry in motion: "'She had heels on, so he only came up to her breasts,' laughs our source. 'With her low-cut dress and his bald head, when he's dancing with her he looks like her third boob.'" Oh, come on. That's funny. [Page Six]
  
  
• Prince Harry's new ladyfriend is a total starfucker. She dated Russell Brand at one point, and one time she had a "romp" in a hot tub with Jack Osbourne and another girl. A "romp," from what I understand, is a funny British word for "sex that isn't really sex" (as opposed to a "snog" which is definitely sex, or a "muggle" which is a non-magical person). [News Of The World]
  
  
• Colin Ferrell needs more bodyguards to protect him from all the paparazzi headed his way. I mean, really? Colin Ferrell? [Rush & Malloy]
  
  
• Michael Phelps is still rocking some kind of porn stache. It's fantastic. [TMZ]
  
  
• Craig Ferguson almost killed himself before running into the friend who would help him have the career he has now. ""I felt worse than I ever had. ... I was a drunk, a loser and a disaster as a human being. ... The shame was immense. It pushed down on me like a terrible weight." Wow. [Rush & Malloy]
  
  
• Ron Burkle denied everything Mark Ebner wrote about him on his blog that didn't make it into Ebner's book on Burkle, which mostly amounts to an "omitted chapter," a salacious little bit where Burkle calls in prostitutes for a girl-on-girl show. Ebner once wrote an article on the Church of Scientology, where, for the purposes of full-disclosure, he wrote: "I am an ex-drug addict who has solicited prostitutes in my day. I've also masturbated and inhaled at the same time, and I have been arrested more than once in my life. I dropped out of high school and I've been under psychiatric care." Here's the thing, Mark: you're not a celebrity! Not even the Scientologists care! Too much full disclosure. TMI. Seriously. [Page Six]
  
  
• Ryan Seacrest and Simon Cowell emerged from a strip club Friday night covered in lipstick. Cute. [P*r*z H*lt*n]

Evan Williams doesn't want you to be worried about the intersection of his face with liquid nitrogen. He isn't! But he secretly knows it's kinda badass.

Facebook's Randi Zuckerberg had a rainy day. Cheer her up with a lipdub.

Page Six's Neel Shah spotted Ron Burkle with his hands full, as usual. No word on where his friends' hands were busy.

Peter Kafka of All Things D was hit by a clueless emission from the Washington Post.

FishbowlNY's Hunter Walker made a sacrifice play that showed how desperate Gotham journalists had become.

Did you witness the media elite tweet something indiscreet? Please email us your favorite tweets - or send us more Twitter usernames.

Cindi Leive, Glamour editor-in-chief, denied she could be one of the book's funhouse mirrored versions of Manhattan media fixtures. It was Leive who playing host at Da Silvano's wine bar to a mix of unnervingly relaxed gossips, writers, and flacks, which meant she invited guests to pet her fur purse — "No, I don't even know what kind of animal it is, but you don't really want to know, do you?"

Froelich, in fishnets, advised that really, "If you can eat it, wear it." She had her own arm-candy: a bouquet of tiny violet roses, compliments of (former?) gossip and one-time Gawker editor, Alex Balk.

Also in the gallery, shot by the unstoppable Nikola Tamindzic: Erica Jong, George Gurley, Sloane Crosley, David Carr, Rachel Sklar, Elizabeth Spiers, Kate Lee, and Neel Shah's hat.

Morgan Spurlock (Super Size Me), Page Six's gossip columnist and Mercury in Retrograde author Paula Froelich

Cindi Leive (editor-in-chief, Glamour), author Erica Jong

Elliot Furman, former Defamer writer Molly Friedman

Glamour's Cindi Leive, Rachel Sklar of Abrams Research

Neel Shah (gossip writer for Page Six, and former Radar), Chris Wilson ("the Neel Shah of the late 90's" he explains), Steve Garbarino (the survivorman of the magazine world, now working with Playboy)

Classing it up, old-school publicist Bobby Zarem

The next generation: omg omg omg

Sloane Crosley (book publicist, author of I Was Told There'd Be Cake), Cindy Eagan (head of teen lit imprint Poppy) Caroline Waxler (writer)

Mediaite Rachel Sklar with Ron Perelman's spokeswoman Christine Taylor

Neel Shah shortly before hatting Sloane Crosley

Alex Balk (The Awl, former Radar executive editor) shows his face with Paula Froelich

A barely debauched George Gurley (New York Observer, Vanity Fair)

La Froelich's fishnets

Paula Froelich, with snappy flack Marvette Brito

Morgan Spurlock

ICM agent Kate Lee with client and Gawker founding editor Elizabeth Spiers

David Carr (star Twitterer and media columnist, New York Times)

Sara Bernstein, of HBO's documentary operation, and Jesse Angelo, New York Post managing editor, who claims to have only ever drunk-bought one domain: yourwifeisonmyblog.com

Sloane Crosley, Neel Shah's hat

Paula Froelich just wants you to go home now

Jessica Wakeman's New York Press feature on Charm School is, for the most part, more polite than all that. She likes the guys trying to learn how to meet women in bars. They're kind of adorable. Including the one with Asperger's syndrome. And the one who looks like the King of Queens and awkwardly twirls her on a subway platform. The one with three minimum wage jobs. Even the one who implies he'd like Wakeman's tongue piercing all over his... fantasies.

They're nice guys; most have a natural, friendly charisma, and they're not afraid to make an ernest effort and self-improvement. Wakeman can relate: "I spent three and a half hours with men who were awkward, who said strange things and tried way too hard, but I'd had a great time with them."

And yet... they're spending $3,500 per weeklong class, and they still have nothing on natural charmers like "Nick," a "very attractive," "smooth-talking New Yorker who could take home any girl he likes."

When a sweet but schlubby guy like Brian is up against an old pro on the pickup scene like Nick, it's apparent how charming he already is.

SNAP.

Here's the thing, though: a guy like Nick has to start somewhere. This particular Nick worked with Wakeman at magazine a few years ago (so either New York or Radar). And he went on to write an undercover article about pick-up artist classes. If this guy is anything like writer Neel Shah, and we're guessing he's exactly like Neel Shah, he wasn't always so smooth:

At one point, Big Business invited me to open a set with him using the mustache routine.., "It'll be easy!" he promised. Sure, for him. I barely lasted five minutes before feebly excusing myself to go get a drink; he had his girl in stitches.

Have some faith, Wakeman. The "Nicks" of the world are made, not born. (Though not at $3,500 per week. That's ridiculous.)

(Photo by jakeliefer on Flickr)

Everyone else is robots. [Nick McGlynn]

CollegeHumor co-conspirator Jakob Lodwick eyes the talent. [Nick McGlynn]

"The humor went that way." [Kate Miltner]

Our fearless leader, Nick Denton. [Nick McGlynn]

The boys' shadowy benefactor, IAC honcho Barry Diller, makes Humor founder Ricky van Veen blush. Sadly, we don't have video of the way those feet move. [Nick McGlynn]

Julia Allison dances while former Gawker intern Neel Shah looks on. We're told Miss Julia complained that Gawker ruined her life and that she was wearing big snow boots (see below), having freshly arrived from Davos. [Kate Miltner]

Twins? [Nick McGlynn]

It goes there. [Nick McGlynn]

Dance, dance! They threw nickels at their feet! [Kate Miltner]

Julia and some other blogger girls. [Nick McGlynn]

Bespectacled partygoers. [Kate Miltner]

This is Noah. He took a picture of himself every day for six years. [Nick McGlynn]

These two bros were everywhere. [Nick McGlynn]

CollegeHumorist Amir Blumenfeld with a ladyfriend. [Nick McGlynn]

Barry Diller with young men. [Nick McGlynn]

Dreama Walker (Hazel from Gossip Girl) with her crew. [Nick McGlynn]

Julia attempts to get revenge on Chairman Denton for her ruining. Goodnight. [Nick Glynn]

"I'd tried the berries a while back at a party and thought they were an amusing foodie party trick, but didn't really think much more of them. And then I was visiting a friend in Palm Beach a month later, and there were actually miracle berries growing wild at the hotel he was staying at, and it sort of dawned on me that the berries were precisely the type of thing that would go over well in New York. And that not many people were selling them. So my friend and I found a sourced a grower in Florida who sends us a weekly shipment, and then we handle the distribution via a bare-bone site we set up. We can arrange either a pick-up or a delivery in Manhattan, just like your dry cleaning and/our real drug delivery service.

We don't charge shipping and handling for orders in NYC, so we're a good deal cheaper than some of the other people selling them. Of course, the whole thing kind of blew up after the Times story came out, but it'll be a while before we're the Pablo Escobar and George Jung of the fruit dealing world."

See also: Grub Street

"It's really upsetting that this girl soured the experience for me," he tells Radar in an e-mail message. "I'm still very upset and in shock over the whole thing. Believe me, I could say some things about her that would blow everyone away. But despite it all, I will at least TRY to be a gentleman this time around."

Cherico also adds that he's debating whether he should take legal action against Smarty Shoes for the public smackdown she gave him, as was suggested by "several lawyers. But given her mental history, I feel she could potentially be a danger to me, my loved ones, and, ultimately, herself."

Like Julia, Apes & Androids have a crazy live show. But instead of attempts at demonstrating embryonic self-awareness, they entertain with confetti, glow sticks and David Bowie make-up. The band had everyone dancing unironically.

On a Thursday night, there are only so many free events for fans of small electro/pop bands with good live acts. However big New York gets, it'll always be a small town. I saw a girl from high school and a kid from my Birthright trip. Growing up in Westchester, it's six of one, half a dozen of the other, but still.

I also saw College Humor honcho Ricky Van Veen, who asked that I create a special adjective for him when referencing him on Gawker. In exchange: all the College Humor t-shirts I could ask for. We agreed on "always-Conversed" because Ricky 2 Vs is always rocking out in Converses. And nothing says casual millionaire (or cool high school civics teacher) like a pair of Chucks.

Ex-College Humor colleague Zach Klein was also there. He and I didn't talk enough to settle on an adjective for him, but I'll say this: his hair is always worth discussing.

On my way out, my friend espied Neel Shah, who was also at the Julia Allison party. That guy is bridging two media worlds one night of free drinks at a time.

I don't care if his name is Apu Nahasapeemapetilon...I want to spread his masculine deliciousness on a some Hindu crackers and start going crazy.

This guy is so hot, he makes steam look cool. Just look at those soulful eyes and artistically sculpted arms. Lock me up in a mountain chalet with nothing but this guy, a limitless supply of body oil and a basket of Swedish condoms. *Yelp!*

I agree..he's totally worth my dowry

Neel: [Attempting to regroup] You have to go in there. Jada: Why me? Neel: It's got to be a girl. Jada: Yeah, I'm sure Snoop Dogg is really into hanging out with nerdy half-Chinese chicks who dress like librarians. You're brown. You have a beard. You go. Neel: I look like a terrorist! Go up to him and say, "It's been my dream since I was 5 years old to smoke pot with Snoop Dogg." Jada: But that's not my dream. Neel: It's like one of the top-three most impressive things you can possibly do in your life! Play ball with LeBron James. Have sex with Jenna Jameson. Smoke pot with Snoop Dogg. I can guarantee there are men on this earth who have done all three, but they are way cooler than me. You HAVE to do this. Jada: Well, I guess it does lead me one step closer to sex with Jenna Jameson.

[Jada hops into a group of passersby, then out again at the center of Snoop Dogg's circle. D-O-Double G passes a long, lean, perfectly rolled blunt to a woman nearby.]

Jada: [Mumbling to self while backing away] Oh, well, looks like I missed my chance.
Snoop Dogg: At what, sugar?
Jada: Uh ... it's been a dream of mine since I was 5 to smoke pot with Snoop Dogg.
Snoop Dogg: [Laughs, pulls out an identical long, lean, perfectly rolled blunt, lights it, and puts it in her tiny hands] Has it been that long?

In which we smoke weed with Snoop Dogg

Like it or not, the holidays are upon us. I'm sure when you were stumbling home in the wee morning hours of November 1st in your slutty Madeline Albright costume, you saw the shopkeepers ripping down witches and vampires and putting up pictures of a fat old man who breaks into your house and tries to woo your children with toys. But there's also that other holiday in between, that one dedicated to an afternoon spent face-down on the shag carpet, woozy from tryptophan and big-bottle wine. A time when you listen to and look at your family and wonder "Who are these people??" I was thinking about this the other day and, in the immortal words of Mr. Ed: later that night, I got to thinking. I've decided we'll have a new Thanksgiving. A Gawker Thanksgiving. It's so corny! I know! But, I get sentimental this time of year.

So. How will this work? I think we'll start with the location. Naturally Laurel Touby, founder of MediaArby's, will be our "cyber hostess." (Ugh.) We'll all meet sometime around noon. Julia Allison will bring her darling dog Lilly and Jakob Lodwick will bring his darling fashion lenses. Tinsley Mortimer will arrive wearing an old, soiled Santa suit and just blink confusedly at everyone. (She'll disappear for much of the night, only to be found in the backyard, stuck in a bear trap.) Kristian Laliberte will arrive with his new boyfriend, Elijah Pollack. They'll be so in love! (Later, during dinner, Anna Wintour will lean in close, her breath reeking of gin and clamato juice, purring into your ear "Aren't they just divine together? They're like Paul Newman and Katherine Ross in Butch Cassidy. Except, you know, gay and, um, young.") John Fitzgerald Page will come crashing through the foyer in his Beemer, Eiffel 65's "Blue" blasting loudly, and shove a sweaty bucket of fried chicken into Laurel's hands. Then, just as we think all the guests have arrived, we'll hear a strange hum, a demonic orchestra tuning. As the whole house rumbles, Sean Hannity will shriek, jumping up and down and clapping his hands, "Rupey is here!" Mr. Murdoch will disembark his flaming humpback whale nuclear stagecoach and shove a sweaty Judith Regan into Laurel's feather boa.

James Lipton will utter a dinner bell clarion call from deep within his diaphragm, and all the guests will be seated at the long oak table. There will be a beautiful centerpiece fashioned out of the rawhide remains of Jocelyn Wildenstein's face. The feast will consist of many bottles of Coppola Vineyards wine, PinkBerry soufflés, and turducken. Robert Olen Butler will be the first to get drunk and hurl recriminations at people. "Elizabeth!!" he'll shout across the table at Jann Wenner, "No one poops in South America! It wasn't a sign! It was nature!!" Chris Crocker will defuse the awkward situation by stripping down to his skivvies and doing an old-style fan dance/Britney Spears hyper-sexual mash-up that erotically incorporates Janet Robinson's famous green bean casserole. ("It's the fried onions that really make it work," he'll say in a post-performance YouTube interview with himself.)

Once all are sated and sufficiently boozed up, plates will be cleared by Laurel's faithful butler, Neel Shah. Then, it's on to charades! Mandy Stadtmiller will start. She will pantomime long walks on beaches and summers spent murmuring on porch swings about the big, bright future. In mere seconds team partner Alyssa Shelasky will shriek "SuperPreppy!!" Commenter KarenUhOh, who has been quietly assessing the legal ramifications of all this, will dryly deadpan: "I thought the category was real people." Mandy will run out of the room weeping and farting, having had her hideous secret revealed. Graydon Carter will be next. He will act out a strange series of lilts and affectations, and Lizzie Grubman will yell with delight "Spike! Spike! It's your little fey creature of a son!" A few more rounds will come and go, and of course it will end in a tie and all will be smugly satisfied with their own accomplishments.

The rest of the evening will be devoted to that most revered and corny of Thanksgiving traditions, the actual giving of thanks. The list of thanks will be long and varied. Selected highlights will be:

Tionna Tee Smalls: The film Ishtar
NewToJezebel: Jewish people.
Jeffrey Epstein: Those High School Musical: The Ice Tour tickets he managed to score.
Christopher Hitchens: Religion and Bic razors.
Atoosa Rubenstein: The well-meaning gypsies who style her and, in a bold extension of an olive branch, the Omega Kitties.
Senator Larry Craig: Feet, and a willful spirit.
Josh Schwartz and the rest of the Gossip Girl team: Blacks and Asians.

And, finally, the yoga stick of thanks will be passed to yours truly. And your friend LolCait will say this:

"I find the word 'thanks' inadequate, or even inappropriate. 'Thanks' implies expectation, a resigned 'Phew! Of course these good things were coming after all.' So I'm not thankful, I'm grateful. Things of late seem pretty awful and, truth is, I've Done Nothing During The War, and yet some good things keep coming to me. Six months into my participation in this bizarre social experiment, it is quite baffling to have found both silly entertainment and keen insight on this most cold and unfeeling internet. So I am grateful for a strange new home, for precarious new friendships."

All will be quiet for a moment, and then I will fall down, completely drunk. I will be scooped up by the ever-friendly Josh Ferris (swoon!) and taken from the room.

The night will end as nights do, with sloppy hugs and prolonged, slurred goodbyes. Dear James Kurisunkal will be passed out in the broom closet, spooning a snoring Spencer Pratt, who will still be in his 'Vincent from the Beauty and the Beast television series' Halloween costume. (Or is it a costume??) Ira Glass will dejectedly try to coax Merry Miller into his cab. The Gawker editors will wander off into the night, a bottle of champagne shared between them (with a pour to the sidewalk, remembering Balks, Shafrirs, Spiers, Oxfelds, and others long gone.) Nick Denton will open his umbrella and float whimsically away into the purple night sky. And I will ramble off, thinking of puns and light bulb jokes for the next week. But, before I turn the corner, I will feel a tap on my shoulder. "Don't be alarmed," a voice will say. "It's only me, Douglas." I'll messily grin at him, this most famous of Queens landlords, and say "Oh Douglas. I'm not alarmed. I'm just grateful... Just wonderfully, queasily grateful."

Douglas will shrug his shoulders and walk away, headed off to yuk it up with Michelle and Emily, happy to have been included at all.

"Who are all those strange people?" Patrick Moberg will ask as he stands on the stoop and watches this all unfold. "I don't know," his new wife Camille will respond, robotically petting his arm.

"I've only just met them."

Maybe it seems like we're taking this too seriously. On the one hand, oh ha ha this is some harmless pagefiller in a teen magazine. On the other hand, what a total pig.

Like, here's the most egregious lie in the article: reason number five Why Guys Lie. "Because We Like You! When a guy's getting to know you, he may think that he needs to lie a little to get you to like him ... Now that we know you like us, we feel safe being 100% real."

Hey, thanks, no. Next up: Why Guys Date Rape: Because We Like You!

As we were walking in, we saw 16-year-old MisShapes muse Jackson Pollis heading out. "You're not sticking around?" we asked. "Naw," he said, "Geordan's being a bitch," Heh! Fame will do that to you. Pollis headed into the night.

To the credit of Rock and Republic, the label that cosponsored the party, it was rather fashionable and rocking. LCD Soundsystem was playing later in the night (around 1:30) and a couple members of the Roots were deejaying in a corner. In the upstairs VIP section, DJ Steve Aoki (AKA the son of Rocky Aoki of Benihana and half-brother of Devon Aoki of supermodeldom) was embracing Mark the Cobrasnake, who was wearing a large gold Chai necklace and tie-dye.

Another DJ, Tommie Sunshine, showed up looking like a cheap Chris Robinson (or so said a disappointed paparazzo). His girlfriend, Daniela M., who is one of the "Top 20 Most Creative Italians on Myspace," was wearing a full-facial motorcycle helmet and refused to take it off all night. Actorboy Danny Masterson was somewhere too. Allegedly.

On the stage, James Friedman and LCD Soundsystem began performing. Radar robot Neel Shah was hanging out with Daily Candy's NYC editor Jeralyn Gerba. Agyness Deyn was with a truly strange looking Smeagol-like gentlemen in a fedora; they danced a saltarello. With the lasers and the smoke, it all felt very Pink Floyd Light Show at the Franklin Institute Planetarium circa 1998. There's a lot worse things to be than that.

[Correction: We just found out via the PR company, the party technically didn't have an affiliation with Condé Nast Fashion Rocks. Such is the chaotic shitshow of Fashion Week.]